


Bounds of Gravity

by Beehiveth (orphan_account)



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen, I suppose this is a weird Busker!AU thingy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 12:50:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Beehiveth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin Crieff hasn't been himself since he lives on the street. But it's better than being nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bounds of Gravity

He’s mostly just a background noise, for all the spectators. He has been for a long time now, so that doesn’t startle him at all. It’s in his blood, to walk around aimlessly, pen in hand (when he runs out of ink he’ll use a cindered match. If his milk carton gets wet or he loses it somewhere he doesn’t know what he’ll do. It’s hard to rely on your memory when sometimes you pass out in a corner because your calorific intake is too low) and music in mind. But he’s happy. Or so he tries to tell himself, most days. If it doesn’t work, then he can always wallow in his misery; then again, the mere idea of that happening repulses him, and then he remembers he’s still strong enough to fight some adversities.

 

Tonight, he plays in Fitton, and last night, he played in Weedon. It’s easy to ignore you haven’t sat down in 10 hours when the only thing you can do without begging on your knees is walking, and he also doesn’t mind, unless he’s dehydrated and the air coming from his lungs sounds like a pumped bellow. The warmth of the pub envelops him whole, which is startling, as it’s just July, and the men and women around him are sweating copiously with their shirts clinging to their bodies. He supposes the jumper he carries him at all times must look odd, but not only does the lack of body fat leave him chilled to the bone on most days, but the contours of his famished body may even disgust his potential audience, so he presses on like a soldier and approaches the bar.

 

“You ‘ere for a drink, matey? Looks like you could do with one,” The barman offers, his cockney accent not quite masking the mixture of both exasperation and suspiciousness in his voice as he takes on the. Martin wants to grab his shoulders and turn him away.

 

“Wouldn’t like to get into a fight, no.” He twists his mouth in what he hopes it’s not a very off putting smile (chapped lips and the remnants of a rudimentarily shaved beard aren’t particularly appealing to the eye; he has enough self-awareness to realize that) and gestures vaguely towards the unoccupied tables near the window. “Mind lending me those floorboards there, though? I promise I won’t cause a mess.” He nearly mentions he tries to wash himself as often as possible, but his trousers are torn and drenched in mud, and the soles of his trainers are nearly completely peeled off, hair hanging limp around his face. _Too much information_ , he reminds himself, and tries not to look pitiful. The hefty man nods nearly imperceptibly and tightens his jaw, and Martin would practically consider it an invitation, so he skitters around the stools and sits on the dusty wood, pulling out his milk carton from the hem of his trousers. His hands are itching for an instrument, even if it’s just a dirty pot from the kitchen, but only the most generous hosts will be willing to let him play, and he’s not willing to risk his chance.

 

As he takes a deep breath, and ignores the scattered murmurs form the onlookers, the words start to tumble out of his mouth, a litany that he can’t quite remember and is etched upon an ephemeral piece of paper. He’s never had particularly powerful vocal chords, booming only when he was a teenager and he was halfway through this childish, high-pitched mumbles and the rusty purring his voice is now. His lyrics sound broken, like a bicycle that hasn’t been oiled properly but used to be the apple of the eye of its owner. He wonders when he stopped being Martin Crieff, plane-boy to become _Don’t go near that man in the corner, honey, he could be dangerous._ He doesn’t really mind the cold, or not eating as regularly as he ought to, but his songs talk about loss, about dreaming of the sky and intercom announcements only to have them taken away from you by chance and pure bad luck. He doesn’t dare open his eyes and peer at the carton. Right now, it’s only warmth, and smells that aren’t petrichor or rot, and telling stories to people who won’t understand. He distinctly doesn’t hear any coins dropping around him, but there are no murmurs; just him, his stories and the hum of the fans on the ceiling.

 

_I’m telling tales_

_Of a young man long lost,_

_Of roaring laughter,_

_Of clouds and dust._

_You don’t have to look_

_To see the wings on his mind_

_Or the throb of his brain;_

_No, you don’t have to look,_

_You just have to stop._

 

When his throat is too dry to continue, he stands up with a groan and tucks his songs against his hipbone again, saluting the barman and making a beeline for the door, not expecting any cheers or clapping, just curious stares and offers for more alcohol that his stomach and liver couldn’t really handle under his current circumstances. It really is unbecoming, unless he gets something out of it.

 

He holds his breath, lets his mouth salivate and swallows. He’s cannon fodder, and he knows it. He is also just the background noise, it’s not as if anyone else will notice.

  


**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank my lovely Beta and brit-picker Franky (http://aligningplanets.tumblr.com/) because sometimes my English can be apalling and this was probably a mood killer for her Fifth Doctor appreciation evening.


End file.
